


The Four Somethings

by daymarket



Series: Evie [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Character Study, Family, Friendship, Gen, Marriage, Relationship(s), Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a silver sixpence in her shoe." There are four things that every bride should have for a felicitous marriage, and Evie Frye is no exception.</p><p>[Character study of Evie, told in four gifts in the weeks leading up to her wedding.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Old

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity-wise, this should be considered the fifth chapter of _Strands_. It can be read as a standalone, but the two stories share some themes, particularly in terms of Evie and Jacob's relationship.
> 
> In order, the givers are Arbaaz Mir, Clara O'Dea (sort of), Pyara Kaur, and Jacob Frye. While this is a fic using Henry and Evie's marriage as a framing device, Henry himself is Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Story. I've removed the Henry/Evie relationship tag as a result so not to deceive those looking for that.

Two weeks before the wedding, Henry's parents arrive from India.

Even if she knew nothing about the Indian Brotherhood, it's impossible to not know the name of Henry's father, Arbaaz Mir. Arbaaz has made a legend for himself in his storied career, enough that even Jacob knows the scattered rumors. (Although, to be fair, Jacob's assessment boils down to more: “That's the Indian bloke that Father was always going on about, wasn't he? Something something diamond something.”)

Henry's spoken about his parents a few times, of course. His mother, Princess Pyara Kaur, is warm and welcoming, supportive of his desire to avoid bloodshed in service to the Brotherhood. He's less effusive about his father, and when he does speak of Arbaaz, which is not often, she can sense the distance that gulfs father and son. She knows that Arbaaz wanted Henry to become a killer, and he was disappointed when that destiny was not realized. Beyond that, Henry has spoken little.

On one hand, she can sympathize. She's had a front ticket often enough to the battles between Jacob and their own father, and more than anyone she can understand the weight of expectations. On the other hand, she's heard the stories from Father. Now _those_ paint a decidedly different picture from the stern parent of Henry's childhood. No, from Father's words, Arbaaz is a headstrong maverick, heady with love and determined to fight all who would stand in the way of his goal. He's spent years of his life searching for the fabled Koh-i-Noor diamond, more in pursuit of his true love, Pyara, and more still in dedication to the Indian Brotherhood and all that it stands for.

It's quite noble, really.

So she's not sure what to expect when she finally meets Henry's parents in person. Of the two, Arbaaz immediately captures the eye. He's not a tall man, but he is very strongly built. He's not bearing an Assassin gauntlet on his arm in their first meeting, but a keen eye can find the calluses where it normally rests. His voice isn't particularly deep, but it's calm and authoritative in a way that reminds her keenly of Father. Ethan Frye and Arbaaz Mir: the adventures they must have had! Oh, if only to be a fly on the wall…

(“Your mouth is open,” Jacob murmurs to her when Henry first introduces them. “Remember, he didn't _actually_ chop off a dozen heads in a single blow.”)

When Arbaaz asks to meet with her in private, Evie's far more nervous than she logically should be. He's only going to be her father-in-law, after all, and if worst comes to worst, well, they'll just elope. Parental approval is such a thing of the past, and Assassins have never held much for those silly things anyway. Right? So no need to worry. She'll just straighten up her table a bit, make sure that every surface is spotless. Oh, and perhaps she'll change into a clean set of clothes, make sure that everything is perfectly presentable before she invites him into her compartment…

(“They're just his parents. You'd think that you were attending the Queen herself. No, you cared a lot less about the Queen, actually, I didn't see you sweeping the floor for _her_.”

“I'm not about to marry into the royals, thank you very much. Now go away. Wait. Could you toss out the garbage on your way out?”)

He's due to arrive at six in the evening, and there's a knock on the compartment door at that exact time. She swings the door open, and he stands now on the threshhold of her compartment, his hands open in front of him as if in a peace offering. She notes his appearance in a blink of an eye. He's dressed in the clothing of the Indian Brotherhood, his clothing embroidered with the Assassin crest. The gauntlet rests on his arm now, worn with the use of decades. It's a silent declaration of distance and formality, and she straightens, determined to treat the moment with the respect it deserves.

“May I come in?” he asks. His voice is quiet, but much like Father's, it has the power to capture a room.

She smiles at him. “Of course, sir,” she says. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He enters, his steps light and soundless. And why wouldn't they be? He's Arbaaz Mir, Master Assassin of the Indian Brotherhood, and he's been pledged to the Brotherhood for longer than she's even been alive. He doesn't overtly look around, but she's no doubt that he's catalogued every inch and item of their surroundings. His gaze rests on her face, and she tilts her chin up, meeting it with a level gaze of her own. No doubt he's performing his own assessment of her, and she wonders what he sees.

“Ethan showed me a photo of you and your brother a very long time ago,” he says at last. “You were much younger then, of course. I see now that all I needed to do is to recall his face. You remind me much of him.”

“I will take that as a compliment, sir,” she says. “Please, sit.”

He sits, accepting her offer of tea with a nod. She busies herself pouring it, handing a cup to him with hands that decidedly do not shake. He sips it perfunctorily before setting it aside. His eyes roam more freely across her compartment now, resting on the collection of posters that she's acquired. The corner of his lips nudge upward, and she takes it as an encouraging sign.

“When the news reached us that Starrick had been eliminated, I did not believe it at first,” he says, sounding thoughtful. “Ethan spent much of his life fighting the man from the shadows, and it seemed impossible that this would ever come to pass. Before he died, he wrote to me of his frustrations with the Council in Crawley and how they refused to act.”

He had? “Father never mentioned those frustrations to us,” she says carefully. “I know that he met with the Council often, but he abided by their decisions for the most part. They said that London was too dangerous, and so Father insisted that we stay away.”

“Hmm. And yet, here you are.”

His voice is perfectly neutral. “And yet, here we are,” she agrees, keeping her voice just as calm. “Jacob and I decided to come shortly after completing our first solo missions. We felt that we were ready.”

“And were you?” Arbaaz asks.

She considers the question carefully. Is it a test? Probably so, she thinks with just a hint of wryness, and the true question is as to which answer is the best to give. In the end, she settles for honesty. “No,” she says. “We came with a dream and not much of a plan. If not for Henry—Jayadeep's—guidance and contacts, we would have been very much lost and without a place to start.”

“And if Jayadeep had not been here, what would you have done? Would you have left? Or would you have stayed, even though it might mean your death?” he says.

She smiles involuntarily at the question, and more so to the easy, instictive answer. “We would have stayed,” she says, and she knows with absolute certainty that they would have. “It would have been a slower, more arduous path, and yes, we might have died. But death can come at any time. We would have stayed.”

His expression is unreadable. Does he consider her reckless? Perhaps he thinks her suicidal worst, far too stubborn at best. She braces herself for his response, raising her chin to meet his eyes. It's with equinamity that he blinks, breaking the held gaze, and it doesn't feel like a concession like it would have with any other person. “I see,” he says, and she wonders what exactly he sees. “And you have killed, of course, in the service of your city.”

She frowns a little, confused at the unspoken question. “Yes,” she says cautiously. “I am an Assassin. I do what I must.”

“As do we all,” he murmurs, and there's something considering in his gaze now. “I spoke at length with my son yesterday. He told me some about how you uprooted Starrick from the city. You began with the gangs, correct?”

“Yes,” she says. “Well, one gang. The Blighters were the main Templar-controlled gang when we arrived, and the Clinkers were the last patch of resistance. It was Jacob's idea to take them in, train them, and grow them into the Rooks. They've proven to be very useful when it comes to freeing the districts.”

“That is one approach that Ethan did not consider,” he says. “He preferred to keep his work secret, as is the nature of the Brotherhood. Assassins work in the dark, after all, and it is an unspoken rule to keep as many in the light as we can. But now you and your brother are leaders of the largest criminal stronghold in London. Not quite what your father proposed.”

It's hard to tell if he approves or disapproves of their methods. His expression still gives nothing away, and his voice is free of judgment either for or against. The words, though, carry a subtle condemnation. And it's true that they could have been more subtle. If she'd been alone, certainly she would've been more subtle. But then again, if she'd been alone, she likely would never have come to London in the first place. She would have obeyed the Council and simmered with frustration all the while, but obedience nonetheless. Irritated though she's been with him, Jacob was the driving factor in both those life-changing decisions.

Interesting.

Arbaaz is watching her still, and she realizes that it's been quite a few minutes since he last spoke. Enough with the games, she decides suddenly. If he approves, all the better. If he doesn't, well, welcome to the London Brotherhood, and this is how things are done here. This is who she and Jacob are, and she won't apologize for that.

The ferocity of the thought surprises her just a little.

“We are indeed the leaders of the Rooks,” she says as calmly as she can. “And it's the culmination of quite a lot of hard work. We made mistakes along the way, certainly, and perhaps advice from an elder could have steered us away from the most obvious. But given a chance to do it again, I would say yes in a heartbeat. This is _our_ city, Mr. Mir, and we have fought and bled for every last inch of it.”

Unexpectedly, Arbaaz laughs. It's a deep, full sound, and she blinks in surprise. “Very much like your father,” he says, and the stone mask is cracked. “It is the mark, it seems, of all young Assassins to aspire to lofty, impossible goals. 'Experience is both aid and shackle.' I remember he wrote that to me, many years after we parted. It seems the destiny of the young to charge headfirst into where the old have failed.”

He settles back into his chair, and for the first time, she realizes just how rigidly he's held himself all this while. So, then. Has she passed the test? Was there a test to begin with? More importantly, would the outcome have mattered either way? “Yes,” she says, and she's not entirely sure what she's saying yes to. “We did what we could, and eventually the pieces fell into place.” She hesitates, and then adds quietly, “I would like to think that we have honored Father's memory, doing what we did.”

She's aware of his eyes on her, his gaze somber. “I was sorry to hear about Ethan's passing. We had our disagreements, but he was a true friend and a good Assassin.” A pause. “London was a dream for Ethan. He had his greatest battles in his city, and I am sorry to say, his greatest failures. To see it now liberated from Templar hands—yes. I am certain that he would be proud.”

She swallows. The words, spoken in his quiet, authoritative voice, seem to almost be an echo from beyond the grave. She looks down, flexing her hands in her lap as the words scramble in her mind. Arbaaz seems to understand, and a moment trickles by in silence. Strangely, it's not uncomfortable.

“Did he ever tell you how he and I met?” he asks at last, breaking the silence.

She takes a breath, casting her memory back over the stories: how Arbaaz stole the Koh-i-Noor, how he fought Alexander Burnes in single combat, how the two of them fought together against the East India Company. But how they met? “I don't think so,” she says slowly. “Much else, but not that.”

“He did not have his Council's approval to leave, either,” Arbaaz says, and there's a hint of rueful amusement in his voice now. “But he wanted to see India, and so from what I am told he simply strolled onto a boat and stowed away for the journey with none the wiser. But—as you may have discovered—dreaming of a land is far different from actually being there, and the man was nearly overwhelmed on his first day. But Ethan was stubborn, and he persisted instead of turning tail and fleeing for home. He found work as a clerk for a trading company. They eventually sent him, amongst a delegation of others, to Amritsar, where the heart of the Indian Brotherhood lies. There, I was assigned to assassinate his master.”

The words paint a picture in her head as the story unfolds. Ethan, young and indignant; Arbaaz, equally young and hot-headed. As it turned out, Ethan already had had his suspicions about said master, but there was a fiery disagreement about timing (“I need the full ledgers! You can't kill him yet!”) and jurisdiction (“Who _are_ you, Englishman? Why are you even here?”), which ended in both of them nearly getting caught and a hasty escape necessary. After extricating themselves from a pile of trash and manure, they decided to put aside their differences just long enough to compromise on the kill, and then for many missions thereafter…

She's known that Father was an Assassin with a career and legacy of his own, but just like Henry's image of Arbaaz, it's always been filtered through the lens of fatherhood. As Ethan's done for Arbaaz, though, so now his old friend repays the favor, telling the stories that make him human. Jacob might even find these interesting, she thinks, and she resolves to share them later.

But for now—she listens, she laughs, she asks, and the stories unfold.


	2. Something New

Every other Saturday, Evie takes afternoon tea with Clara and her children, known sometimes informally as the Raggedy Court. The Saturday before her wedding, she gets into a fistfight. To be fair, the two are only coincidentally related.

It begins innocently enough. Clara and the other children have set up their headquarters in an abandoned factory in Lambeth. It's surprisingly homey given its seedy origins, and Evie's become rather fond of its cramped but lively aesthetic. Day or night, it's guaranteed to always be busy as children run in and out. She certainly wouldn't want to live there all the time, but for a bi-weekly afternoon tea—well, it's a lovely change of pace.

As it turns out, Clara's interests range far beyond the freeing of children. There's all sorts of things to keep track of: the rounds of the flower and paper sellers, the lodging and reinstatement of newly-found children, and most importantly, the careful maintenance of the information flow of the city. It turns out to be very much like a business, and as with any good business, the key to harmony is communication. So the tea isn't all social; it's to coordinate the Rooks with whatever missions that Clara may have in mind. Evie's found the little girl to be quite astute, enough that the descriptor “little” seems rather out of place.

This particular Saturday, though, the topic at hand is Evie's impending wedding. Which is really all everyone's been talking about lately, so she's not particularly surprised. “You don't seem very excited,” Clara says as she pours them each a cup of tea. “Do you not like Mr. Henry?”

Evie laughs. “Clara, if I didn't love Mr. Henry, I wouldn't be marrying him,” she says.

“Plenty of people don't marry for love,” Clara points out. “Esmeralda Bushkin married that shopkeeper down the street because he's rich and owns land in the country. So he says, anyway, but I don't believe it.”

“Well, I'm not Esmeralda Bushkin,” Evie says dryly. “And besides, Assassins have never had to marry for position or money. We don't really do aristocracy, you know.”

“Oh. But you're both aristocrats now, anyway, so I suppose it doesn't matter,” Clara says reflectively. “And running missions for the Queen herself, too! I'd shake to my boots if I ever met old Victoria.”

“She's really quite a nice person,” Evie says. “Well. A little old-fashioned, but I suppose that must be expected with the monarchy. But not at all as frightening as one might think.”

“Huh. Is _she_ going to be at your wedding?”

The very idea of Queen Victoria in the mere presence of criminal Assassins and gangsters! Perish the thought. “I don't think it's quite her style,” Evie says tactfully, trying not to smile at the thought. “But again, you and the others are quite welcome. Just try not to scandalize my parents-in-law. I'm trying not to make a terrible impression on them.”

“Won't say a single swear, promise,” Clara says, eyes earnest. “And I'll be the best flower girl you've ever seen.”

Wait, what? “You're going to be my flower girl?” Evie asks bemusedly. “I didn't even know I was going to have flower girls. Did I decide this?”

“You are now. _And_ we'll have a carriage waiting and ready, just in case you change your mind,” Clara says with no little satisfaction. “So if you want to run away at the last second, we've got you covered. Burney's getting better at steering the horses all the time. And Angelica's already nicked a set of your clothes, so you can change in the carriage and hop away with no one the wiser.”

Evie blinks. “I can? Wait. _Am_ I planning to run away at the altar?”

Clara shrugs. “We'll get everything ready just in case. And if you don't, then we can use the horses anyway for the McAllister job in the afternoon.” She pauses, and then adds brightly, “We're sure that you won't run 'cos Mr. Henry's a good man, but we shan't say no if you need us.”

There's nothing but sincerity in Clara's expression, and Evie has to work hard to keep a straight face. “Well, I don't have any plans to run away, but I will certainly keep it in mind,” she says gravely. “And seeing as I now have a flower girl, I will also be prepared for that. Do I bring the flowers or will you supply your own?”

“Oh, don't worry about those. Rouser got his hands on lots from the job last week, and they're still mostly fresh. It'll stop him from eating them, anyway, if I tell him they're for your wedding,” she adds almost as a philosophical afterthought, and Evie can't stop a laugh from bursting out. “And then we can—”

And that's when the scream rings through the factory. Evie's on her feet in an instant, Clara following suit in the next heartbeat. Leaning over the railing, Evie can see that there's quite a commotion on the factory floor, the center of which appears to be a rather out-of-breath girl, half-hysterical by the sounds of it. “Oh, dear,” Clara says as she takes it in. It's not really an exclamation of surprise, more one of resignation. “That's Missy. I thought this might happen.”

"You did?"

"Unfortunately, yeah. Hold on."

Clara rushes down the stairs. The crowd around Missy parts to give her room as she approaches, and Evie follows in her wake. Missy looks to be about ten, and her appearance is a disheveled mess even for an urchin on the streets. The sleeve of her dress is torn, and her pigtails are half-undone. “Calm down,” Clara's saying as Evie approaches. “Missy, one word at a time. What happened at the Dogsbody? Is Jasper all right?”

“No,” Missy whimpers. “They've got him. The bully boys found him in the alleyway and he couldn't get out. Please, we have to stop them, else we'll be fishing him out of the Thames tomorrow!”

Clara turns, an unspoken question in her eyes. Evie doesn't know the situation: who Jasper is, who he might have angered, or really, anything of what is going on. But Clara's asking a favor, and Evie won't sit by and let a child be killed, no matter his crime. “Of course,” she says immediately. “Call the Rooks on Clapham Street, too.”

And then they're off. There are always a number of carriages parked near the factory, and Evie commandeers one now, following Clara's directions down a series of winding streets. They stop near a ramshackle set of townhouses, and Clara looks around, clearly anxious. “This is where Missy last saw him,” she informs Evie. “But they could be anywhere by now...”

A problem for anyone else, perhaps, but not an Assassin. Evie takes a breath and switches to the second sight, willing the eagle to sho her the way. The grey blooms to life around her, and there are bright gold tracks on the ground now, directing her to her prey. “Here," Evie says. "This way.”

Clara doesn't question her, biting her lip and giving a resolute nod as they continue to move throughout the streets. It doesn't take long before they hear a young boy's cries, punctuated by the angry shouts of older men. Evie takes a breath, sliding from the seat of the carriage. “Stay here,” she directs Clara. “Point the Rooks towards me if they arrive, but stay out of trouble. Run away if you have to, do you understand? This is too dangerous for you.”

She nods, eyes wide. Evie turns back towards the sounds of what can only be Jasper receiving a thorough beating, and she feels the calm of the hunt settle into her bones as she makes her way through the street. True, she doesn't know what the unfortunate Jasper may have done to incite their wrath, and for all she knows there may be a very good reason. Not justifiable enough to warrant this, though, and certainly not going to stop her from stopping them.

And so, she strikes.

Banter is for those who wish to throw away a perfectly good advantage. Evie attacks from above, silent and swift. There are three men, and she catches one in the drop, cracking his shoulder hard into the ground. He won't die—her intention here isn't to kill—but his arm is broken and he's down for the count. She whirls around to face the other two, and it's an easy job to slam one into the other, using the wall to knock them both out. It's over in less than a minute, with all three bully boys flat on the ground. A simple job, really, for a trained Assassin. Much less so for a young child.

Jasper is curled up and barely conscious, but he still tries to scrabble away as she approaches. “Hey,” she says as gently as she can. “It's all right. My name is Evie Frye, and I'm a friend of Clara's. She sent me to find you. You're safe now, I promise.”

The boy is a bloody mess, and she wishes grimly that the descriptor was a mere curse word. She holds out her hands, sliding them as slowly as she can under Jasper's knees and head. Picking him up is going to hurt him no matter how gentle she is, and the best she can do is to get it over with as soon as possible. She tightens her grip on him. “All right, ready? On the count of three, I'm going to pick you up. One, two—”

There's a split-second of warning, triggered by the second sense honed with years of experience. She loosens her hold on Jasper and rolls away, but not quick enough. Something slams hard into the side of her head, and Evie gasps involuntarily as pain blossoms, sharp and vicious. She staggers back, clawing at the wall for a grip. The world is spinning, but through the bright spots of vision she can see one of the men approaching. Which one, it doesn't matter, but clearly they're not as unconscious as they're supposed to be. Stupid, stupid,  _stupid!_

He rushes at her. She's not coordinated enough to dodge it, but she can bring her arm up and use his own momentum to spear the hidden blade through his shoulder. He howls, and she pulls her blade out, backhanding him hard across the face with all of her strength. As he takes an involuntary step back, she grabs his head by the hair, twisting hard and driving it into the wall. He crumples without further ado.

She stands for a moment, breathing hard. There's something sticky running down the side of her face, and a touch of her finger reveals that it's blood. Hers or the man's, she's not sure, but she's willing to bet that it's her own if the throbbing pain is any judge. Sloppy, she thinks, more angry at herself then at them. She should've made sure that they were unconscious. An amateur mistake, and now she's paying the price, and none of it should have happened in the first place—

Stop, she thinks. Berating yourself won't help matters. “All right,” she says, and her voice sounds very distant to her own ears. “One step at a time. You can do this, Evie.”

Lifting Jasper feels like a herculean task, and each step thereafter seems to set the world spinning anew. She's never been more grateful to find that Clara has ignored her compunction to stay put, the girl rushing forward as they round the corner to the carriage. “Miss Evie!” Clara cries, the words coming out in a rush. “Oh, bloody hell. Jasper! What did they do? Riley, help me get him into the carriage. Miss Evie, you should sit in there too, you look right done in. Martha, run to the station and check the schedule, and send the runners to find Jacob Frye. Oh, and Mr. Green too!"

“Jacob's not far, he's at the Thames,” Evie murmurs as she drops heavily onto the carriage seat. “Won't be back until supper, if at all. Some to-do with Ned, I don't know what exactly. Henry's with his parents. Whitechapel? I don't know. I can't remember...”

“All right, Miss Evie, we'll handle it. You just sit and stay put. Burney!” Clara calls, and Evie flinches away at the shout. “Take us to the asylum. Miss Nightingale will know what to do. Come on, then!”

And then it all turns into a rather achy, bumpy blur. Evie knows vaguely that she's got a concussion of some sort, no doubt, and staying awake is very important. It's such a chore, though, and if not for Clara shaking her constantly, no doubt she would have drifted off. As it is, she's only distantly aware of their surroundings as they usher in through some doors and probably around some corridors. Miss Nightingale is there, she knows, and Evie obediently answers the questions as they're posed.

After that, the world gets very quiet and a little strange for a while, and that's really just fine by her.

* * *

It's some time later. There's grey, filtered light coming from the window, but the drapes are drawn, which is nice. There's someone else in the room, which is probably nice, but it depends rather on who that person is. She shifts on the bed as she peers blurrily into the half-light. “Clara?” she says. Her head feels somewhat like it's been stuffed with cotton balls, but at least it doesn't hurt anymore.

“No,” a very familiar voice says, and every muscle in her body relaxes at the sound. “Just me. Disappointed?”

“Jacob,” she says, the word more a sigh than a proper word. She flings an arm out, and she feels him take it, his hand warm and solid. “You're here.”

“Of course I'm here. Someone told me that my dearest darling sister was swooning on the steps of Lambeth, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity like that, now could I?” The words are sarcastic, but his hand is gentle as it rubs circles just above the pulse point in her wrist. “What happened?”

Thinking is hard, but Evie does her best to recall the events. “Got stupid,” she says finally. “Inna fight. Didn't make sure he was out.”

“Should've just killed them.”

“Didn't wanna. Not 'nough info.”

“Well, that's just silly of you,” he says, the words softly chiding.

It's too much effort to make a proper face at him, so she settles for the slightest wrinkle of her nose. Even that hurts, though, and she groans softly with pain. “Ow.”

“Right, don't do that. You're going to have a lovely bruise on your wedding day,” he says. “The photographs will be ghastly. The guests are going to think you're a hooligan from the slums.”

“M'not from the slums. _You're_ from the slums.”

“Well, I can't argue that,” he says. She has the slightest notion that he's just humoring her, though, and she gives him the most suspicious glare she can under the circumstances. It probably turns out to be slightly more of a squint, but if his grin is any indication, he understands the sentiment behind it. “Would I lie to you?”

“Of course,” she says, but there's no real heat behind it. She takes a breath, the thoughts moving slow as molasses through her head. “Where's Henry? An' Clara. And the boy?”

“We've got children looking for Greenie. He's probably in Whitechapel, so they'll find him soon. I got the news first, so here I am. O'Dea is back at her court or whatever it's called, but she does have one of her little minions here. As to the boy, I've no idea. What boy, etcetera.”

Boy. Right. What boy? “Jasper,” she says after a bleary moment. “He was in trouble.”

“And so you decided to jump into the fray,” Jacob says, sounding wry. “You hero, you.”

“Was stupid,” she mumbles.

“Oh, I've no doubt. Heroics _are_ stupid. But you saved someone's life, or so I am told. Strange how that keeps happening.”

“I try,” she yawns. “Mm. Hafta see a man 'bout a dog.”

“And there we are. Any illusion of heroism I've ever had about you goes down the drain,” he says, and there's definitely a smile in his voice. “Fortunately for you, you're in the deluxe suite here in our good asylum. There's a connecting bathroom. Do you need me to help?”

She considers it for a moment. It's not really a matter of pride, but more a matter of...well...something that she can't articulate right now, but it's definitely not pride. She knows that. “Maybe?” she ventures finally. “Room's a bit wobbly.”

There's a grunt from Jacob as he straightens up in his chair. “Come on, then, old lady,” he says. “Here. Hold onto me.”

He slides an arm behind her head, the other hand bracing the small of her back. It's vaguely reminiscent of the way she'd held Jasper earlier (hours ago? She doesn't know how long it's been), and she tries not to let the irony bite too deeply. Jacob is a solid bulk against her, though, and he doesn't complain as she drags against his arm for support when the swaying threatens to overwhelm her.

At a snail's pace, they make their way across the floor and into the bathroom. The only light is the pale half-light from the window in the adjacent room, and it really doesn't do anything for the dark of the bathroom. Tiredly, she blinks, changing her sight to the silver-grey world of eagle vision. There. Better. She doesn't even want to think about how painful the lightbulb would be right now.

Jacob's face is a cool, reassuring green, the color of an ally. His eyes fix unerringly on hers in the dark, and she can see his mouth quirk wryly as he deduces what she's doing. “No light, then,” he says, his voice low. “Do you need me to…?”

She tries to shake her head and ends up more twitching it instead as the room lurches around her. “I'll be fine,” she tells him. “Go tell Clara I'm 'live.”

“Hmph. Fine. If I hear something hitting the floor, though, I'm charging in, your delicate modesty be damned,” he warns her. She swats him on the hip, seeing as that's the closest part of him that she can reach. But he does leave, and she leans against the wall of the bathroom as she begins the aching process of actually using the damn toilet.

Jacob returns long before she's done, and she can hear him puttering around the room outside. He's there when she finally manages to get the door open, and there's a glass of water in his hand when she settles back into the bed. She sips at it gratefully before leaning back into the pillows with a sigh. Finally, a place where the room isn't whirling in a horribly nauseous matter. “Thanks,” she mumbles, pressing the cool glass against her forehead.

He reaches over, extricating the glass from her hands and setting it to safety on the bedside table. “You're welcome,” he says, and then he probably follows it up with some sarcastic comment or the other. She smiles drowsily and pats the air in the general direction of his arm, humoring whatever he's saying. It doesn't really matter, though, because she's drifting off, the world a haze once more.

* * *

 The next thing she's aware of, there's sunlight filtering through the window. It's the bright, clear light of day, and best of all, it doesn't threaten to stab her in the eyes. She blinks at the light in childlike pleasure for a moment before raising a hand to touch her temple. The skin there is tender to the touch, and she can feel the bruise across the top half of her cheekbone. There's some sort of ointment slathered on her face, slick to the touch.

“Miss Nightingale said not to touch it,” a voice says, high and anxious. “I'm so sorry, Miss Evie, I didn't think this would happen!”

She turns her head to look at Clara, a quiet part of her marveling at how the room stays perfectly still. A thing that many people take for granted, evidently, including herself. The girl is perched on the edge of her chair, looking as if she's ready to fly off at any moment. Her hair is in wild disarray, and she looks as if she's been awake all night. Her fingers are twisted together, almost bloodlessly white. Evie reaches out to place her own hand over them.

“Clara,” she says, and she winces a little at how raspy her voice is. “It's quite all right.”

“But you were hurt!” Clara bursts out. “And it's all because I asked you to help! We wouldn't have even called you if you hadn't been there. It really wasn't your problem at all, but you helped anyway and now you're all bruised! And you're going to get married in four days! But last night you couldn't even stand up and what if you—”

Evie tightens her hands on Clara's, stilling the flood of words. The girl sounds like she's about to cry, and it's strange to remember that she's still only thirteen. A child still, no matter what authority she may wield over her peers. “Clara,” she says gently. “This isn't your fault. I wanted to help.”

“You wouldn't have come if I hadn't asked!” Clara cries. "I shouldn't have asked you—"

“Clara. You didn't need to ask,” Evie says firmly. “I wouldn't have stood by and watched it happen, and believe me, you would've had a job on your hands trying to stop me. I wouldn't have been able to call myself an Assassin in good conscience if I had just waited.”

“But now—what about the wedding?” Clara says, sounding miserable. “You can't get married looking like that. The bruise is huge!”

Evie laughs, and she winces at the movement stretches the bruised muscles of her face. “I can and I will,” she tells Clara. “Henry will love me, bruise or no, and I won't regret what caused it.” Well, except her own stupidity, but she leaves that bit out.

Clara sniffs. “I don't know,” she begins, still sounding wretchedly unhappy. “But don't you have to take photographs or something? People do that at weddings, I know.”

“We can always put those off,” Evie says, shaking her head. “Photographs are tedious to do anyway. Perhaps we won't have them at all. Henry won't care, I know.”

The sound that comes from Clara can be most accurately described as a yelp. “You can't do that!” she says. “You need to have photographs!”

Evie stifles her smile at the sheer horror in Clara's voice. “All right,” she says. “Then we shall have them, but it doesn't have to be the day of the wedding itself. I'm not worried about them, Clara. Not the same way I would have been worried about your friends.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Evie says firmly. “The wedding will go on. I promise." She shifts in the bed, turning towards the younger girl. "And Clara, you are still invited."

"I don't think I should," Clara begins, and Evie shakes her head. "But I—"

"No. I need my flower girl there, remember?" She waits a beat and then adds, "Not to mention my elopement carriage, remember? I shall hold you to that promise."

She smiles as her words are enough to startle a laugh out of Clara. It's a watery sound, but it's encouraging nonetheless. “That would be a fair mess,” Clara says, scrubbing a hand across her nose. “Hopefully Mr. Henry didn't hear that. He just stepped out to get some water. He should be back soon.”

“Well, he has very good timing. Although, if he did know, I think he'd just be amused that I'm so prepared,” Evie says absently. She looks at the door and switches to her eagle vision, letting the presence of others announce themselves in green and gold blurs. And yes, there's Henry, rounding the corner with the requisite jug of water in hand. “And speak of the devil,” she says softly.

“You really shouldn't be calling your fiance a devil,” Clara says, and she sounds surprisingly prim. Evie turns her attention away from the door and raises an eyebrow at her, and Clara flashes her a cheeky grin. It's a bit wobbly, but Evie returns it, anyway, feeling much better. Good. Clara's coming back to her old spirit, then, which was the point of the whole exercise.

Guilt is too exhausting for anyone to bear, much less a young girl.

“I'll go, then,” Clara says, standing up. “I'll come by the train tonight, is that all right?”

“Yes,” Evie says. "I'll see you there."

She gives Clara a wave goodbye as the girl lets herself out. With a smile, Evie leans back into the pillows, waiting for Henry to arrive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are intentional parallels to the first couple chapters of _Raven_ here. They're just too good pass up! These siblings, man! /flails


	3. Something Borrowed

It's not so much that Evie doesn't like dresses as it is that they're just so very _impractical_. Strapped into a corset and several layers, she can barely run, much less climb and fight the way she's been trained to her entire life. But still, she will admit that there are occasions when they are useful. Infiltrating a ball at Buckingham Palace, for one. Getting married, for another.

Her original plan was to buy something simple and secondhand, but as it turns out, Mrs. Disraeli is one of the most enthusiastic proponents of marriage that she's ever met. One mention of marriage and Evie's found herself dressed up like a doll, enough that she's not entirely sure whether to be dismayed or pleased. It's a very nice dress, though, she'll admit that. It's got a fitted bodice decorated with intricate flower embroidery and silver beads. The skirt is similarly decorated, and layers of silk give it a full, flowing touch.

She looks at it now as it hangs on her wardrobe. It seems to shine even in the soft lamplight light of her train compartment, giving off a faint, moonlike glow that speaks of her future. Tomorrow is just a ceremony, a finalization of what she and Henry have had for the past two years. Theoretically, it shouldn't change anything. It makes things legal, certainly, and there will be drink and dance and celebration to mark the occasion. But then in the day after, they'll wake up and continue with their lives, and nothing will have changed. She'll still be Evie Frye, Master Assassin, and that will never change.

Reaching out, she touches the bodice, tracing her fingers over the embroidery. It's actually a little scratchy to the touch, so it's a relief that she won't have to wear it for longer than a day. But for that day, as long as she does, she'll be a bride. She'll be getting married. She'll be joining her life with another person, a promise to live together through sickness and health, poverty and wealth, until death do them part. That's not a promise one makes lightly, but she's ready to make it. She is.

Yes. Deep breaths, Evie.

She'd worn the dress once at the fitting, and it had taken the help of one of the assistants to properly lace up the bodice. She'll need help tomorrow, too, most likely. Gathering the skirt up in her hands, she gives into the urge to rub her face into it like a cat. God, she wants to put it on just to see what it looks like again on her. And really, why not? She's alone, no one will know. She'd barely recognized herself when she was wearing it, and that luminescent awe is hard to forget. It's just silk and thread and beads, but somehow, when it's all put together, it becomes something more. _She_ became something more. So maybe she'll just—

_Knock. Knock._

She jumps involuntarily at the sound, dropping the fabric as if she's been burned. Whirling around, she feels a faint blush rise to her cheeks. Pyara Kaur, Henry's mother, is standing in the doorway to her compartment, looking elegant and beautiful in a red and gold sari and carrying a small bag in her hand. How long has she been there? Evie thinks wildly. How much as she seen? Thank God that Evie didn't actually try to put the dress on. The last thing she needs is to be caught looking the fool trying to lace up her bodice…

Pyara's smiling faintly, and Evie feels her blush deepen. Henry's mother, by all accounts, is a very nice woman. Evie hasn't talked to her much since her arrival, though, and it seems rather uncouth to be caught rubbing one's face into one's dress by one's mother-in-law. She takes a step away from the dress as if she can distance herself from it, and she sits down on the bed as casually as she can. “Sorry, ma'am,” she says, trying to sound calm. “I didn't notice you standing there. Can I help you?”

“I should be the one apologizing. I did not mean to startle you,” Pyara says. Her voice is quiet and melodious, carrying a soft cadence of its own. “May I join you?”

“Oh!” Evie says. She jumps up to pull a chair closer. “Yes. I'm sorry. Please sit, ma'am.”

Pyara enters, gracefully seating herself. “Thank you. And please call me Pyara,” she says. “Ma'am sounds so strange to the tongue.”

“Oh—all right,” Evie says awkwardly. It feels strange to be so tongue-tied, given that Pyara really hasn't _done_ anything and really, neither has Evie. “I will. Um. Pyara.” She clears her throat. “I didn't you expect you here. I'm sorry, or I would have cleaned up a bit.”

“The short notice is my fault. Arbaaz had some business with Amritsar, and I believe that your brother has requested Jayadeep's presence for the night,” Pyara says, smoothing down the folds of her sari. “As it turned out, I had some free time. I thought I would join you here, if that is all right.”

“Oh, yes,” Evie says distractedly, digesting that particular piece of news. Jacob _requested_ Henry's presence? That's...unusual. And a little bit ominous, if she's going to be entirely honest. “Did Jacob say what for?”

“No,” Pyara says calmly. “But I trust that they will be entirely presentable for the wedding tomorrow.”

She sounds entirely unbothered by the potential mauling of her son. Which Jacob wouldn't actually do, of course. If Henry does anything to Evie, she's more than capable of defending herself, and Jacob knows that. So Jacob's probably taking Henry out to have a nice, friendly drink at a tavern. A commiseration of a last day of bachelorhood, like good friends do. It'll be pleasant and fun for everybody involved. Yes.

(She can't even complete the thought with a straight face.)

She pushes that particular train of thought aside, turning her attention back to Pyara. If Pyara can sense what she's thinking, she's hiding it very well as she sits with serene poise in the chair. “I'm sure they'll be fine,” Evie says weakly. “Jacob's a good man.” He wouldn't hurt Henry. Much, she adds silently.

“Indeed,” Pyara says. “I have heard much about him from Jayadeep. He speaks quite highly of your brother, you know,” she adds, and Evie works to keep the surprise from her face. “Just as he has of you.”

Evie ducks her head. “Ah. I see,” she says. “I think that Henry is rather obligated to say nice things about me, though. We _are_ getting married, after all.”

Pyara laughs. “True. But Arbaaz has added his own testimony, and I trust his judgment to be unclouded. You remind him much of Ethan, he tells me. And of himself, when he was younger. Which may or may not be a good thing. I remember that Arbaaz was quite, ah, complicated in the days of our courtship.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. The first time we met, he was on business for the Brotherhood. He lied to my face, and then he was thrown into prison,” Pyara says. “It all worked itself out, but it was quite an exciting couple of months.”

“Oh. Well, I've yet to be imprisoned, if that makes you feel better,” Evie offers. It's true that if not for the carefully blind eye of Abberline that something like that might have happened, but as it stands, her record is flawless in the eyes of the judge. “And, well, our courtship has been less tumultuous than yours, given the sound of it. At least, if you allow for the circumstances that brought us together. I do love Henry very much, ma'am. Pyara.”

“And I have no doubt that he is equally drawn to you,” Pyara says. “For all the Brotherhood teaches us of death, he has a gentle soul at heart. I see the same in you.”

“Are you an Assassin, Pyara?” Evie asks, curious. “Henry didn't mention you were, but I didn't want to assume...”

Pyara laughs, shaking her head. “No. But I have lived with them long enough to understand your ways and Creed. Now, there are some aspects that I do not know if I agree with, but I have seen the lives of men and women who are pledged to its ways.” She smiles at Evie. “Some would say, ah, 'pigheaded', I believe is the word.” She picks out the word with care, her accent curling around the vowels carefully. “But I think it is more noble than foolish.”

Noble, foolish. Not two words that normally go together, but somehow rather apt. Evie rubs the back of her neck, feeling a little rueful. “I do hope it's noble,” she says. She pauses for a moment, thinking over her next words. "I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't. It's all I've ever known.”

“That is not unusual, so I am given to learn," Pyara says, nodding. "It is all Arbaaz has known, and the philosophy that my son has been raised in his entire life. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. As with any creed, what matters most is in the interpretation." She taps her chin with a hand, looking thoughtful. "I do not know how you do it here in England, but in India, our children are taught the classics first, beginning with the words of Altair. Eventually, though, they must meditate and decide the meaning of the Creed for themselves. The path of the Brotherhood is not an easy one, and it does not thrive in an unwilling heart.”

Had Father ever asked the same of them? Evie wonders suddenly. He's certainly never asked them to meditate, at least. But has he asked to them to consider the _meaning_ of the Brotherhood? They've been trained to fight and kill in its service their entire lives. Have they done so all along as blind children, lashing out without direction or cause? She thinks of Jacob, of his wild, brawling adolescence. He never cared much for Father's teachings. He's made a point of ignoring the history of Assassins in centuries past, the philosophies of Altair, Ezio, Shao Jun.

So he an Assassin still, or merely a murderer?

The thought strikes her almost like a physical blow. No, she thinks instinctively, almost violently. Jacob is not a murderer. He kills and he's killed, yes, but she knows with absolute certainty that her brother is a good man, an Assassin to the core.

Now the only exercise that remains is to articulate _why_...

“I can't imagine being anything else,” she says, and it feels almost like a hushed confession. “I've always known that Father was an Assassin, and I've always wanted to be one, too.” She raises her eyes, meeting the other woman's gaze. Has Pyara's ever struggled with the same questions? she muses. Pyara may not be sworn to the Creed, but she is no blind bystander, either.

“So what, then, did Ethan teach you?” Pyara asks. There's no condemnation in her voice.

The rich legacy that Father left them offers a wealth of possibilities, and Evie closes her eyes, working out her answer with care. “Father taught me how to choose my targets,” she says at last. “He taught me how be the judge where no court of law can reach. He taught me to think for myself, and to protect the rights of others to do so. And above all, that the Creed is not about death, but about what you bring to the lives of others.” She hesitates. “And he taught Jacob the same. Jacob's targets— _our_ targets—are tyrants, bullies, those who abuse their power. He is an Assassin, as am I.”

The silence is deafening. Evie breathes in, out. Slowly, she opens her eyes, her gaze darting up to meet Pyara's. The older woman is watching her with a small smile on her face, and something uncurls in the pit of Evie's stomach. “You have learned much from Ethan, then,” Pyara says quietly.

“Yes,” Evie says simply. She has.

“Jayadeep learned that from him, too,” Pyara says, and Evie startles a little at the mention of Henry. “Above all, Ethan taught him that what matters most in an Assassin's life is how your actions affect the lives of others, not in the measure of deaths. And when Jayadeep refused to kill, your father supported his choice. He saved Jayadeep by bringing him to London. In doing so, he saved Arbaaz as well.”

“Arbaaz? Was he in danger?” Evie asks, confused.

“Not from the Brotherhood, no. Ethan stopped Arbaaz from killing his own son,” Pyara says. “And so, he stopped me from killing Arbaaz, for I would have had he condemned my son to death.”

Her eyes are calm, and her voice is tranquil. There's a core of steel under the silk, though, and Evie has no doubt that this grim future would have come to pass had the worst happened. She inclines her head in silent acknowledgement of that strength. “Then,” she says, “I am glad for all our sakes that my father was there.”

“As am I,” Pyara says. She claps her hands together, the sound sharp and bright. “And now here we are! You are Ethan Frye's daughter, and you are about to marry my son.” She smiles at Evie. “If you were to wed in India, our customs would call for gifts before the wedding and _maenzraat_ , the bridal painting. But we are here in London, and I do not know many of your English customs. However, I would like to give you a gift, now, should they would allow for it.”

Evie blinks. “I suppose they do,” she says, thrown off guard by the sudden change in topic. “But you really don't need to,” she adds hastily. “Truly, having you two here for the wedding is gift enough.”

“Ah, the famous English courtesy. You would do me the honor, then, of accepting this.” She reaches into the bag beside her now, and she brings out something wrapped in golden cloth. Evie takes it and sets it on her lap, unfolding the cloth with slow ceremony.

It's a gold necklace, which is extraordinary enough. What catches the eye, though, is the diamond that hangs from the end. Its shape is jagged and uneven, forming a discordant harmony with the whorl of gold that encases it. It's nearly the size of her thumb, and while Evie doesn't know diamonds very well, she does know that _this_ is no ordinary diamond. Her breath catches in her chest, and for a moment all she can do is stare at it. There's a strange ringing in her ears.

Pyara's saying something, and Evie struggles to pay attention. “A shard of the Koh-i-Noor,” Pyara's saying. “Arbaaz found the diamond years ago, and a replica now rests with your queen. What you may not know, however, is that the Koh-i-Noor is not just a diamond. It is a remnant of Those Who Came Before, and many years ago, when Arbaaz and I first met, it broke into many shards in a battle. Its magic allowed for it to restore itself, but the broken pieces of the original self remain.”

Evie can't take her eyes off the diamond. It glitters in her hand, throwing off a prism of color that overshadows mere lamplight. “What,” she says, at a loss for words. She shakes her head, trying to focus. “This is—ma'am, Pyara, this is too much.”

“It is said that only God or a woman may wield the Koh-i-Noor,” Pyara says softly. “I do not know what God would do, but I do know that I can think of no woman I would rather give it to than you, soon to be my daughter.”

Evie is not vain, and she cares little for gems. But this is more than that: it's a theater of light, something that far outshines mere gems. The gold links are cool in her hand, and the diamond whispers a soft, seductive song of its own. But—no. It's not meant for her. “I can't,” she says. “I don't. No. Pyara, this belongs to you. It belongs to India as a jewel of your Brotherhood. I can't take it.” She sets it back in the cloth, swallowing hard. “I'm honored, but I can't. I'm sorry.”

She flips the cloth back over the diamond, hiding it from view. She misses the brilliance as soon as it's gone, and it takes all her willpower not to unwrap it again and bring it back into the light. Not looking at Pyara, she bundles it back up, holding it out to the other woman. “Please.”

Pyara's silent for a moment. Finally, she reaches out, her hands cupping around Evie's. “You will not accept it?”

“It belongs in India,” Evie reiterates. “Not here in London. Not with me.” She smiles weakly. “I would be honored to accept any other gift. But I cannot take this.”

“Hmm.” To Evie's relief, Pyara doesn't sound upset, just considering. A moment passes by before she speaks again, her voice slow and contemplative. “Jayadeep has told me that the two of you plan to come to India in the near future. Is that correct?”

The question comes out of left field. Confused, Evie nods. “Yes,” she says cautiously. “We'd planned it to be this year, but we just got so busy. But sometime in the next five years, yes.”

“Good," Pyara say. "Then, Evie Frye, I propose a compromise. You will honor me by wearing this at your wedding tomorrow, and you will keep it thereafter.” Evie opens her mouth to protest, and Pyara shakes her head just a fraction, stopping Evie's words before they're fully formed. “When you come to India, you may return it to me in person. Is that acceptable?”

“I,” Evie begins. She looks down at their clasped hands, brown covering white, gold wrapping light. It's a promise, she thinks. A promise to go, and more importantly, a promise to return. A promise of family, of history old and new.

“Yes,” she says at last. “That is acceptable.”

Pyara smiles. “Good. May I help you put it on?”

Wordlessly, Evie nods. With careful hands, Pyara unwraps the cloth, revealing the shard of the Koh-i-noor again in all its glory. It's no less brilliant for its time in darkness. Pyara stands up, moving behind Evie with the necklace in hand. Her hands are cool and dry against Evie's neck, and Evie breathes out as the weight settles around her neck. It's surprisingly heavy, the diamond resting as an unforgettable weight against her chest.

“It seems that the Fryes are destined to share our lives with ours, and I am glad for it,” Pyara says softly. “I am sure that you and Jayadeep will have a long and happy life together. And, I hope, with us.”

Yes, Evie thinks, smiling. I hope so, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Okay, now I REALLY want to write a fic about Henry's stag night, orchestrated and organized by one Jacob Frye. Heh.)
> 
> For the curious, a lot of Pyara's story (as well as the Koh-i-Noor) is drawn from AC:Underworld, Brahman, and Chronicles: India. Check those out for the Official Canon Versions (TM). Officially, the Koh-i-Noor supposedly just magically reformed after it got borked, but I like to think that Pyara squirreled away a piece or two. Also, Arbaaz did indeed condemn Henry to death for failure to complete a mission. (See AC:Underworld.) Not a very nice thing to do.


	4. Something Blue

Evie breathes slowly in and out, feeling the air move through her lungs. It's harder than usual, given that she's laced into the bodice of a dress. Still, it's not enough so as to be painfully limiting, and it is a special occasion, after all. She's wearing a dress, and today is her wedding day. It won't do to faint halfway through. Her palms are sweating again, and she rubs them against her dress in an effort to dry them. The silk isn't cooperating, and she gives up the fight. Her arm feels bare without the weight of a hidden blade strapped to it.

“Nervous? You know, it's not too late to run away.”

She turns to look at Jacob. He's leaning against the doorway of the church's waiting room as he has been for the past half hour, waiting patiently as Mrs. Disraeli and her troupe finished clucking over Evie's dress. He's dressed in a rather dapper suit, his usual rough-and-tumble clothing switched out for a smart-looking waistcoat and bow tie. He's even combed his hair, for God's sake. It's by far the most formal she's ever seen him, _including_  that one time at the Queen's ball.

“Yes,” she says in answer to his question. “And no, I'm not going to run away. Think of the wasted expense.”

“Ah,” he says. “Well, London's economy will thank you, I'm sure. Certainly the bridal boutique will. Exactly how much powder are you wearing right now?”

Evie grimaces, rubbing at her nose. It's true that Mrs. Disraeli's flock of hairdressers and stylists were a little overly enthusiastic, and she has the feeling that if she rubs too hard against her cheek, she'll cause a snowstorm. Perhaps they wouldn't have been quite so excessive if it weren't for the still-fading bruise, but still. She's not entirely sure that all of this was necessary. “There's certainly enough to make me sneeze if I breathe too hard,” she says after a moment. “And I think whatever they put in my hair is never going to wash out. I'll smell of pomade and perfume forever.”

“Oh, whine. You know, many a young lady would swoon with joy to have that curse,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“Yes, well, before they can have that privilege, they'll have to spend the morning having their scalp poked and prodded,” she says sardonically. She shakes her head, testing a theory out. The usual wisps of hair don't brush her forehead, carefully oiled into place as they are, and she sighs a little. “No, Jacob, this is not something that I want to do again anytime soon.”

“Well, that's easy enough to avoid,” he says lazily. “Don't get divorced, stay married, avoid further weddings. Easy enough. Even I know that.”

“Well!” she says, raising a finger. “So, Jacob Frye, you _are_ saying that I should marry Mr. Green, then? Not that I am displeased by this development, let me tell you. Here I thought you were going to be all scowling until the dawn of the next age.”

“Believe me, I _have_ scowled,” he says. He straightens up from his relaxed stance, gesturing with his free hand. “I've huffed and I've puffed and I've scowled the bloody house down. Greenie doesn't scare as easy as I hoped, though. I'll say this for him. He's absolute arse at being an Assassin, but as a husband, you could do worse.”

“Oh, my. High praise,” she says dryly. “Dare I ask what exactly happened last night? Do I even have a fiance still, or is he chopped to pieces and sunk to the bottom of the Thames?”

“As funny as it would see you pledge your life to a bag of dismembered entrails, no. Greenie is in one piece. Possibly waiting for you at the altar even now. Isn't there supposed to be a wedding or something today? When does this thing start, anyway?”

“We've got time still,” she says, shaking her head. “Elizabeth's supposed to come in to let me know when they're ready for us. Why, are you impatient?”

“No, never,” he scoffs. “Why, are _you_ having second thoughts about Greenie? I can still rectify that, you know.”

“Charming,” she tells him, and he touches his hand to the brim of his hat in a salute. “Please don't butcher anyone today. I'm wearing white and it doesn't go very well with blood.”

“I would keep it clean!” he says with mock affront. “I know how to be subtle, excuse you very much.”

“You do? What a wonder. Well, I'm only judging based off years of evidence,” she says. Her hands are on her hips in a posture of indignation, but they both know perfectly well that there's no sting to her words. “And I'll thank you not to kill my fiance. Or my husband, for that matter.”

"You have both at the same time? How very French of you!”

“Oh, shut it, Jacob!”

“Ah, you're no fun. I was afraid that this was going to happen. Marriage has clearly destroyed your sense of humor,” he says. He's grinning, though, loose and easy. She looks at him, and his good spirits are infectious enough that she's smiling, too. Her heart is full and fond.

“I'm loads of fun,” she tells him in her loftiest voice. “Exciting, thrilling, positively dashing. If nothing, you must admit that.”

“Oh, right. How could I forget,” he drawls. “The bruise on your face is a glorious testiment to evenings full of exhilaration.”

“Come now! You can barely see it. Mrs. Disraeli's friends were _very_ thorough.”

To her mild surprise, her words seem to sober him up. He looks at her, and she can feel his considering gaze on her face. “Hmm. True. To be honest, I don't suppose I'd notice it if I didn't already know it was there.”

“See? There we go, then. It's a bloody miracle, and everything's going to be fine,” she says. She breathes in, the scent of perfume thick in her nose. “So here I am now. All dressed up and ready to get married.”

The sun is brightly shining, and there's birdsong coming through the open windows. Her words seem almost like a chill wind, though, stifling the warmth in the room. She lets out a shaky breath as an involuntary shiver runs down her spine. She wants to take the words back. Except no, she doesn't. She _wants_ to get married, truly.

How did they change moods in the blink of an eye? Jacob's expression is strangely somber now, and she has to turn away. The mirror's before her, though, and her reflection looks back. It's painted, dressed up, as beautiful as a team of highly paid professionals can make it. It's perfect.

Too perfect.

There's a shift of light. Evie glances up as Jacob's in the reflection now, standing close behind her. She meets his eyes in the mirror. They're hooded and almost dark, and his expression gives nothing away. “I don't really recognize myself,” she says, and her voice is subdued in the hush of the church. “It seems strange to look this way. It seems strange to be here at all.”

She can see him shrug. “It's only powder and paint. A very expensive team of the finest stylists can do wonders, or so I've been told.”

“It's hardly the paint that I'm worried about,” she says dismissively. “No. I can wear that for a day, and tomorrow it will be gone. But marriage—marriage _lasts_.” She pauses, and it feels almost as if she's stalling. For what exactly, she doesn't know. “It won't ever be the same, will it?”

The words come out quieter than she'd intended. Jacob's mouth twists upward in a tired parody of a smile. “Evie,” he says. “You're doing it again. Don't.”

“Don't what?” she says, knowing it but asking anyway.

“You're thinking too much,” he says, gently chiding. “You love Henry, don't you?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“And he loves you. So take it, then, for what it's worth,” he says. “Don't worry on it like a dog with a bone.”

She frowns. “I don't know if I can. I was never very good at not thinking,” she admits.

“Then I'll not-think for you. That's my specialty, remember?” She huffs with amusement, but it fades away quickly as he continues speaking. “Believe me,” he says, “I've tried very hard to scare him away. Somehow, he managed to stick around through my nastiest glares. Much as I hate to say it, that's worth a couple points in my book.”

She looks down, unable to meet his gaze. “I've told you about India, haven't I?” she asks. Involuntarily, her hand reaches up to her neck, where the shard of the Koh-i-Noor rests on the gold chain. “How Henry and I plan to go sometime soon after the—after today? And—to stay?”

“That is a pretty piece of sparkle you're wearing,” he says, which isn't answering the question in the slightest. “It's a little gaudy for my taste, if I'm going to be honest. I suppose that it's very shiny, though, which is something. Who gave it to you? The Princess Pyara?”

“Jacob,” she says, a soft rebuke.

He's silent for a moment. His hand reaches up to rest on her shoulder, and she places her own hand over it. After what seems like an eternity, he nods, the movement curt. “Yes,” he says. “You did tell me. Last year, actually, when you first got engaged. And then again this year again, just a couple months ago. I would say that you're probably going to tell me the year after, except. Well. Something tells me that you won't be here to say it.”

No, she thinks, and the thought is sobering. In all likelihood, she won't.

He leans forward with a sigh. His beard is scratchy against her skin as he braces his chin against her shoulder, but she doesn't mind. Their eyes meet again in the mirror, and she tightens her grip on his hand. With Henry, she thinks, this would be an intimate gesture, a playful prelude to something else. With anyone else, it would be a gross intrusion of personal space. With Jacob, though, it's just...right.

“You could come with us to India,” she offers quietly. Even as the words come out, though, she knows what his reaction will be. In the next moment, she's proven correct as he raises his head, giving her a look that's not quite exasperated, but close. She smiles at him ruefully. “Well. It was worth a try.”

“And you made a splendid effort of it,” he says. There's some attempt at his old sarcasm, an effort to regain his composure. “But I'd burn too easily in India and you know it. Life as a lobster is not for me.”

“Oh, so it is for me?” she says, allowing his redirection. “What a caring brother _you_ turned out to be.”

“Don't sell yourself short. You would look charming as a tomato,” he says. He laughs, and to his credit, it only sounds slightly forced. “Especially contrasted in the white of your bridal gown! It's a shame photographs aren't in color, because that's definitely a sight I would want to see. At least I've witnessed you in purple. Or part of you, at least,” he says, gesturing to the bruise.

“True,” she says lightly. “I would hate to think of what other colors of the rainbow I could be painted. Best not to risk it, I think, enthusiastic as Mrs. Disraeli's friends might be. There's only so much of London fashion that I can take.”

“No, indeed,” he says softly, and there's no joke in it, not anymore.

She's not sure how long they stand like that, lost in thought. What she does know, though, is that she misses him acutely when he moves away at the sound of a knock on the door. He's a respectable couple feet apart from her when the door opens and Elizabeth sticks her head in. “Evie,” the older Assassin says. “We're ready for you.”

“Thank you,” Evie says. “Give us just a moment, please.”

Elizabeth nods, and the door closes again. Evie sucks in a sharp breath, resisting the urge to drag her hand against her face. This is absurd. She's not going to India today, nor tomorrow. She might not even go this year. It's coming, that's true, but it doesn't have to be _soon_.

But it's coming nonetheless, and then they will be apart. Each to pursue their own paths, whatever that may be. Part of her is looking forward to that: not excited, precisely, but curious to know who she is without her brother by her side. And then another part, a much larger part, is just...scared.

There's the rustle of paper behind her. Evie turns around, and Jacob's standing by the table, unwrapping something hidden in brown paper and ribbon. He lifts away the paper, bringing them into view. Flowers? Blue flowers, a dozen curved bells clinging to a stem.

“Snapdragons?” she asks, confused.

“Saw them today at the market,” he says. “The flower seller told me that they're supposed to restore, ah, 'youth and beauty' to women. Something you clearly need,” he adds dryly. “Anyway, I know you and Greenie have that little book of yours, so they probably have some other meaning I'm not aware of. I've no idea, though. They're pretty, at least. And they're blue, to go with your eyes.”

He pulls out one stem from the bouquet, handing it to her. She studies it, tracing her fingers along the petals. “They are,” she says at last. “And they stand for graciousness. 'Gracious lady', if we're going to be precise. And also, strength.”

“Ah. Uncanny, isn't it? But there we go, then,” he says. “So. May I?”

She nods. Taking another stem of flowers, he reaches forward. His fingers are deft as they tuck the flowers into her braid, all the way from one ear to the next. She would give more credit to Mrs. Disraeli's hair pomade for her hair staying in shape, but she knows that Jacob can be very gentle when the mood suits him.

He lifts his hands away. She looks back at the mirror, at the blue crown of flowers on her head. It looks beautiful. Jacob may not know the slightest thing about symbolism, but somehow, by sheer luck, he's stumbled across flowers that embody strength and graciousness. Both of which sound very apt for this day, _especially_ this day...

( _D_ _eception_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispers. Snapdragons also stand for deception.)

(No. That doesn't have to mean anything, and she won't let it. Not everything means something, and that's all right.)

She shakes her head. The flowers stay perfectly on, a testament to Jacob's skill. “I'm getting married today,” she says. She's not sure if she's saying it to herself or to him. “I am really getting married.”

“Yes, you are,” he affirms.

“And it will be wonderful.”

“Yes,” he says. “You look very lovely, Evie Frye.”

He holds out an arm for her. His smile is faint but present, and she raises her chin, taking strength from it. “Shall we?” he asks.

She puts her arm in his. “Yes,” she says. “Let's.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snapdragons typically are red/orange, but [blue varieties](http://georgedidden.com/_ccLib/image/plants/DETA-534.jpg) apparently do exist. At least, that's what Google-fu tells me. You can find elaborations on the meaning of snapdragons [here](http://www.canadianflowerdelivery.com/snapdragon.aspx) or [here](http://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flower-meanings).
> 
> In other news, I think this is by far the fastest I have ever written anything, ever. Take that, all the NaNoWriMos I never finished!


End file.
